Page 31 of When Javi Dumped Mari

Javi

Two Years and Two Months Before the Wedding

I’m staring at the ceiling as Mari sleeps soundly, her head resting against my chest. My arms are aching and my neck is stiff.

I stick out my tongue. Yeah, that’s sore too.

I slip out from under Mari, throw on my boxers and jeans, and walk on Jell-O legs to grab a water from the minifridge.

If she tries for round four I’m going to cry.

The woman is as relentless in bed as she is outside it.

Leaning against the counter in the living area, I survey the room, eventually drifting over to the desk.

Mari’s planner sits open, a steel-tipped mechanical pencil resting on it.

The month’s entries are riddled with so many items there’s hardly any empty space left.

Her days seem to be nothing but meetings, appointments, and reminders.

She’s even jotted a time next Tuesday evening to call her mother.

A flash of light on her laptop snags my attention, and then I see a notification alerting her that she has thirty-four unread texts and emails. Damn.

I sit on the couch and guzzle the much-needed water.

Nothing about last night was a mistake. When I close my eyes, I picture Mari riding me, her eyes heavy with lust. Just the memory of it makes me want to risk another round.

But this morning feels fraught. As if we inflicted irreparable damage on a relationship that hadn’t even had the chance to re-form.

I don’t want to be just another guy to her, but I’m also not at a point in my life when I can be the guy for her.

Not that she’d even want me to. Fuck. I hate being human.

I should have kept walking last night. Should have gone home and jerked off and called it a day.

But Mari asked me to stay, and despite all the red flags warning me not to, I selfishly took the slice of heaven she was offering.

My hand brushes against her coat, which is carefully draped over a sofa arm.

Is this cashmere? Where the hell does cashmere come from anyway?

I tug on the lapel and glance at the label.

Dolce it only underscored that in terms of everything else we’ve grown farther apart.

I point to the water bottle in my other hand. “I was thirsty.”

She takes one step toward me, then hesitates. “Are you coming back to bed?”

“I need to head out soon,” I say, bracing my neck. “I’m due on set at nine a.m. I have a speaking role.”

Her eyes widen. “That’s great.”

“Don’t get too excited. I literally say, ‘I have a reservation for two under Ramirez.’?”

“Hey, the Latine rep counts for something,” she says, tucking the sheet beneath her before she sits next to me. “How any movie set in New York can get away with having no people of color is beyond me.”

“It’s magical realism.” I shrug. “Or magical surrealism .”

She huffs. “Magical erasure too.”

After a few beats of silence, she asks, “So, want to talk about it?”

“Talk about what?”

“The student debt crisis and its effect on our nation’s economy,” she deadpans.

I nod gravely. “I mean, the threat to the housing market is real.”

She bumps me with her shoulder. “C’mon, Javi, this is me you’re talking to. And we’re grown-ups. Or we’re supposed to be.”

“Fine, let’s talk,” I say, taking her hand in mine. “Can we grab coffee somewhere nearby? I’m wiped out.”

She gives me a suggestive smile. “Put it on ya last night, didn’t I?”

She sure did. Our chemistry isn’t the problem—but everything else is.

***

Mari takes me to a crowded coffee shop around the block from the hotel.

We order regular coffees and take them to a corner that’s partially obscured by the jackets hanging on a vintage coatrack.

Across from me, Mari quietly fixes her cup of coffee, the sugar in the glass shaker she’s holding flowing like sand in an hourglass.

“Do you want some coffee with that sugar?” I ask.

“It’s seven a.m., Javi,” she says in a don’t-fuck-with-me tone.

I throw up my hands then sip my coffee, seizing on the moment to study her in the morning light.

She’s dressed more casually than when I first saw her, a pair of worn jeans sitting low on her hips.

The all-white Adidas she’s sporting feel like a flex, as if she’s reminding me that she’s always had an impressive sneaker game.

Her lips shimmer under the shop’s overheads, but she’s otherwise makeup free, most of her curls tucked under a knit beanie with a pompom on top.

If I were asked to describe an outfit tailor-made to disarm me, what Mari’s wearing now would be my answer.

There’s history here, a stroll down memory lane to a time when Mari and I couldn’t imagine being anything other than the very best of friends.

Plus, she looks adorable. And judging by the attention she got when we walked in, I’m not the only one who thinks so.

She blows out a breath and leans back in her chair, a coffee stirrer in her hand. “The floor is yours, my friend.”

“Okay, well, I’ll start with this: Last night was amazing. Everything I hoped it would be and more.”

She sips her coffee, then blows on it, and I focus really hard on not staring at her lips. “But…”

I lean back and stare at her. “That’s your line.”

She laughs. “What? Why me?”

“Because it will always be you.”

“You’re gaslighting me right now. Admit it.”

I shrug. “Then it wouldn’t be gaslighting.” A few beats of silence later, I add, “This is when you tell me last night was a one-time thing.”

“Or a three-time thing,” she says.

I raise an eyebrow. “Or a one-time three-round thing.”

“I’m not sure going down on me counts as a whole round. So two and a half.”

“The last word is yours. Have it.”

We smile at each other until she straightens and lets out a long breath. She sets her cup down, leans forward, and rests her elbows on the table. “Or we could try to see if this thing between you and me has wings.”

Her words ignite a tiny flame of hope in my mind, but I snuff it out quickly.

It would be so easy to disregard logic and simply get swept away by what she’s suggesting, but I lost Mari once, and I can’t risk that happening again.

Our reunion is still new, still fresh. One wrong move, and she’ll be gone forever.

“Mari, let’s be serious. You’d chew me up and spit me out within weeks. ”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because you’re you and I’m me.”

She scrunches up her face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“We’re just different, Mari. You have a certain lifestyle you’re accustomed to. I can’t give you that.”

“I don’t recall asking you to,” she says, drawing back in frustration. She blows out a breath and scans the shop.

I give her a moment, then I say, “Of course not, but I’d want to. Or be able to, at least.”

Her gaze snaps to mine. “So what I want means nothing?”

“You know that isn’t true…It’s just…You’re zigging, and I’m zagging. In life, I mean.”

She groans, then squares her shoulders. “Javi, let me be clear: I don’t need you to be anyone other than exactly who you are. Right now. In this moment. That’s enough for me.”

“Well, it’s not enough for me.” I straighten, my eyes searching hers. “And anyway, what are we even talking about? You have a whole life in L.A., and I’m here in New York—”

“Doing what, exactly?” she asks, her mouth pursed in annoyance.

My heads snaps back and I glare at her. “So much for being enough.”

It’s not until she sees my reaction that she realizes there was only one way that question could have landed. “I didn’t—”

“You want to know what I’m doing, Mari? I’m making a living. That’s what us mortals tend to do. And don’t look at me like that!”

“Like what?” she whisper-shouts, exasperation threaded in her voice.

“Like you pity me!”

“I don’t pity you, Javi.”

She says the words so softly, I wonder for a second if I imagined them.

“I have dreams too, Mari. And I’m working on them, all right?”

“I know you are,” she says, her voice urgent and strong. “I don’t doubt that for a second.”

Mari was the first person to learn I wanted to write a musical.

She believed in me back then. She believes in me now.

And I know she’s likely as frustrated as I am that the musical is still unwritten.

This moment crystallizes what we’ve always been for each other: Friends.

Confidants. Supporters. Everything else just muddies the waters until all that’s left is a murky mess.

Mari sighs. “So this really was a one-time thing.”

I sit up and peer at her. “Isn’t that what you wanted? Be honest, wasn’t your plan to fuck me and move on?”

She drops her gaze and stares at the floor. “Yes, that was exactly my plan.”

“But you miscalculated. Because you didn’t count on still caring about me.”

“Yes, dammit, yes,” she says, hanging her head.

I miscalculated too. I thought I’d finally get her out of my system.

Rid myself of the infatuation not even six years apart could diminish.

But all I’ve done is grafted her onto my body and made her an essential part of me.

I want to be the person who can work with her to build the life she’s accustomed to.

I want to be the person she’d proudly introduce to her old law school friends.

I want to be the person she deserves. But I’m not that person right now.

Maybe I never will be. “Just so you know, I never stopped caring about you.”

“Same.” She takes my hand and threads her fingers through mine. “So where do we go from here?”

“Let’s do what we do best.”

“And what’s that?” she asks, her eyes boring into me.

“Be friends.”

Because we can make this friendship real.

We can shore it up, give it the type of foundation that’ll weather whatever life throws at us.

A romantic relationship would crash and burn, and there’s no way I’d survive the wreckage.

Being friends is the only answer that makes sense.

We both know it. So what if it hurts a whole hell of a lot?